


in came the flood

by addandsubtract



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Developing Relationship, Lactation, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-05-30 02:41:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15087209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/addandsubtract/pseuds/addandsubtract
Summary: Brady only realizes how sore he is when Kevin slaps his chest, both of them coming off the ice after practice.





	in came the flood

**Author's Note:**

> all apologies to kevin hayes for having to make him conveniently absent for much of this fic. i know you love them too, bro.
> 
> normal warnings for porn logic, i guess, and apologies for any typos!

Brady only realizes how sore he is when Kevin slaps his chest, both of them coming off the ice after practice. He hisses, and Kevin makes a face.

“Sorry, bro. Bruised?”

“Guess so,” Brady says. “You always know exactly where to find ‘em.” Kevin grins, shrugs, because it’s true. Not even counting that time he sliced Brady’s face open, which Kevin is sort of sensitive about. He pats Brady more gently on the arm, making Brady roll his eyes and swat him back. Totally normal, even though Brady is internally on high alert.

Jimmy gives him a once-over in the locker room like he can tell something is up, but when Brady glances down at himself nothing seems off. Even at his worst it was always a little hard to tell what was muscle and what was swelling. The benefits of being broad.

He nudges Jimmy after he showers, says, “Kev and I were thinking about trying that new Japanese place around the corner.”

Jimmy looks suspicious again, but this time Brady knows why. “Uh —“

Brady snorts. “It’s not just sushi, I checked. You’re saved from raw fish.”

“Oh, okay,” Jimmy says. His smile is kind of lopsided, but Brady has always liked that. “That’s fine then.”

Now that Brady has noticed the soreness in his chest he can’t put it out of his mind. He’s not sure how he managed to lie to himself as long as it would take to get this bad. Later, when they’re home, he’ll take care of it, but the fact that it’s happening at all — well. He thought he was past that.

 

After dinner, Jimmy turns on the TV — Sportscenter, it sounds like — and Brady closes himself in the bathroom. Kevin is on a beer run, but when he gets back he’ll probably sack out on the couch with Jimmy. Brady figures he has some time.

He turns on the shower, both to cover for any noise and to give himself an excuse if either of them ask. Then he shucks off his shirt and bends over the sink. His nipples are tinged pinker than usual, the skin around them slightly swollen, and when Brady presses with the tips of his fingers, they ache. He should’ve noticed sooner.

Truthfully, this hasn’t happened since his first year at Minnesota, so he mostly hoped he wouldn’t have to deal with it again. Like maybe that was being a teenager, and now he’s an adult. It has something to do with stress, he knows, but he hadn’t realized all the losing was taking such a toll. The trade rumors. It’s a different kind of nerves than playing hockey for the college team he dreamt about his entire childhood, but it’s not nothing. That lasted for two months of furtive sneaking around and shameful jerking off, trying to keep quiet in the dorm showers. He’s done his best to stop thinking about it at all since then.

It was just a weird thing his body did. As long as it didn’t happen again he wouldn’t have to think about the way he liked it.

No one is likely to notice based on how he fills out his shirt, or in the shower between games, at least not yet, but it’ll start to hurt more, and then it’ll start to show. He’s already softer, and the longer he leaves it the more they’ll start to look like real tits. Just thinking the word sends a shameful thrill through him. He didn’t shower with the rest of the Gophers for two weeks in college while he figured out how to deal with it. At least now he knows better.

Carefully, carefully, he presses harder around one nipple. It hurts, but it feels good too — it always has. He bites his lip, holding in a sound when the first drop of liquid seeps out. He knows from experience how sweet it tastes. The milk.

He keeps his touch soft, knowing that it’s easier when he’s gentle, and he’s rewarded with another drop, then another as the liquid starts to flow. It’s a relief, a letting up of pressure that built up so slowly he hadn't noticed, a pain that he put out of his mind rather than acknowledge. He shudders, holding in another soft whine, and tries not to think about how this affected him before, the way he couldn’t help himself.

He presses and presses — there isn’t enough yet for it to spray, and he’s not putting enough force into it anyway, but it trickles over his pec, down his stomach. Some drips onto the sinktop where he’s leaning over. It gets on his fingers, making them slippery. He sticks them into his mouth, sweetness spilling over his tongue, and realizes that he’s hard. It shouldn’t be a surprise. It’s not, really.

In the mirror, his face is flushed, fingers in his mouth, chest slick and shiny. He watches himself there when he pulls his fingers out, moving on to his other nipple. This one takes more coaxing, but after a few careful minutes it starts to leak. He’s making a complete mess — of himself, of the bathroom — but it feels good. He can’t stop; he has to get it all out. He’s tenting his sweats, and there’s no reason not to deal with that too.

“Brady?” It’s Jimmy, calling through the door. “Are you fingering yourself in there or something?”

“I’m almost done,” Brady says, raising his voice enough to be heard over the pounding water of the shower. He slides the waistband of his pants down underneath the hard curve of his dick, pushing until they’re around his thighs. He gets the fabric damp with milk from his fingers, but he’s too worked up to care. His palm is still wet when he wraps it around his dick, starting to stroke. He calls out, “Do you like thinking about me fingering myself?” He’s only a little breathless.

Jimmy laughs. “Shut up, we’re waiting for you to start the movie.”

“Start without me,” he says, working to keep his voice mostly level. He rubs his fingers over the head of his dick, spreading precome around, mixing with the milk already slicking his skin. “I’ll be out soon, and I’ve seen it before anyway.”

Jimmy doesn’t reply. With his free hand, Brady pinches his nipple, tugging, getting out the last drops. He’s spent so much time since his freshman year trying not to think about how it gets him off, trying not to miss the feeling of it, but here he is again. He doesn’t tease, just works his nipples between his fingers, strokes his dick hard and fast, and comes, jerking, all over the edge of the sink.

He looks wrecked, when he glances back at his face: hectic spots of color on his cheeks, nipples red and used, trails of milk sliding down his chest and stomach. Come splattered there to join it. He licks his fingers, almost helplessly, tasting the sweetness of milk and the salty bitterness of semen. What a fucking mess. 

He wipes down the sink as quickly as he can — all he has is toilet paper, which he flushes — and then steps into the shower to rinse off. His nipples are too sensitive now, tingling under the hot water, and he knows it’s going to be a problem when he puts a shirt on. He doesn’t care. He feels good.

 

By the time he’s clean and changed — he’s not going to wear sweats that smell like his own milk into the living room with his roommates — Jimmy and Kevin are taking up most of the couch, and they’re fifteen minutes into the most recent Jurassic Park movie.

“Took you long enough,” Kevin says, not looking away from the screen. “Jim was worried.”

“Yeah I thought you might drown,” Jimmy says, sarcastic.

“I’m touched,” Brady says, and kicks his ankle. Jimmy smiles, looking reluctant about it. He holds out the bowl of popcorn when Brady gestures for it, and there’s an open beer sweating on the coffee table that appears to be for him. Brady got pretty lucky with roommates.

He picks up the beer and leans back, ignoring the way the cotton of his shirt slides over his chest, tiny sparks of pleasure.

 

It doesn’t get better but he doesn’t let it get worse, either. A couple of times a week he closes himself in his bathroom, or, when it’s late, his bedroom, and presses on his pecs, twisting his nipples while he milks himself. He gets off afterward, or during, and it never takes much. A wet hand stroking his dick. Sometimes he closes his eyes and imagines that it’s someone else doing this for him. Once, when he’s already splayed out on his bed, he fingers himself open, working himself up thinking about a mouth on his chest — his tits — sucking the milk out of him. Maybe — maybe fucking him while they do it.

It feels wrong, and so hot, and he _wants_. He comes so fast his head spins.

 

“What’s up with you lately?” Jimmy asks him. They don’t usually do a lot of walking in Tribeca, even though they live there, because they’re not used to doing much of anything for themselves, so what’s the point? Now, though, they’re walking to the Regal near Battery Park, effectively kicked out of the apartment because Kevin’s family is in town. His mom decided to use their kitchen to cook dinner. They could’ve stayed — Jimmy, at least, is almost one of the family — but it seemed kind of rude.

“What do you mean?” Brady asks. His nipples are particularly sensitive today, because the team was on a short road trip, and then he couldn’t find the time to sneak off until they’d been back a few days. He’s wearing a jacket, though, so it shouldn’t be noticeable to Jimmy.

“I dunno,” Jimmy says. He’s not the most talkative guy, but neither is Brady. It’s why Kevin is nice to have around. “You keep abandoning me with Kevin. You got a new girl or something? Important sexting to do?”

Brady laughs. “Yeah, no.” He’s getting off, but mostly because he apparently finds shame arousing. He’s fucking lactating, and milking himself makes him harder than anything else ever has.

Jimmy is skeptical, and it shows in the twist of his mouth, the quirk of his eyebrows. “I’m not a complete idiot, man. I graduated from Harvard, remember?”

“Only because you’re good at hockey,” Brady says, like Jimmy didn’t actually have to get in to Harvard to go there. “There’s no girl, I promise. Season’s just taking a toll, okay?”

“You’re bullshitting me,” Jimmy says. He shrugs, one-shouldered. “Which is fine, I guess, but you know you can, like — talk to me, if you want.”

“I know,” Brady says. “I just wanna see a movie, and then go home and eat whatever leftovers Kev’s mom left for us, though.”

Jimmy nudges Brady with his shoulder, hands firmly in the pockets of his jacket, says, “Yeah, okay.”

 

Despite everything, he adjusts — he gets used to the way Jimmy watches him, sometimes, and he gets used to the way tugging at his nipples, working the milk out, is almost enough to make him come on its own. In college he spent so much time worried someone would find out, how they’d laugh at him and his fucked up, weird body, but he’s older now, and it’s happened before. He still worries about the team finding out, but it’s easy enough to fall back into old patterns.

So he adjusts, but then they go on their west coast road swing, first to Colorado, and then through California. It’s harder to find the time away while sharing a room, and even if Jimmy wasn’t already suspicious, Brady sneaking into the shower when they’ve just gotten back from the arena would be weird to anyone.

They lose in Colorado, and the next day they lose in LA. Brady can feel his pecs getting sore, swollen. It’s worse than that first day when Kevin accidentally hit him, and it’s enough to make Brady cautious, embarrassed in the locker room. Hoping no one looks at him too closely. He catches himself turning away from the guys when he’s in the shower, carefully holding his shirt away from his body while he buttons it up. He wonders what he’d do if they started leaking, milk soaking into the fabric of his shirt where anyone could see. Just the thought makes his belly tight.

By worrying about it, he’s probably being even more obvious.

They lose in Anaheim, and when the rest of the team decides to go out for dinner, Brady begs off — he’s tired, he’s frustrated, he feels like at least two of the Ducks’ goals were directly his fault. He’s not lying, but he also his pecs hurt, a sweet sort of ache, ever-present, and he can’t imagine making conversation and not thinking about how good it would feel to reach underneath his t-shirt and dig a fingernail into his nipple, letting the milk flow. Kevin gives him a hug — genuine but odd, that’s Kevin — and then shoves Jimmy out the door, into the hallway.

“Bye!” Kevin yells over his shoulder. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of our pal Jim.”

“I expect him home at 9 on the dot,” Brady says, and can’t help but smile at Kevin’s laugh, cut off when the door slams behind him.

He gives it ten minutes, sitting on the edge of the bed, just in case Jimmy forgot something, or decides to flake last minute. He’s impatient, foot bobbing, eyes on the bedside clock. Finally, when he can’t stand waiting any longer, he pushes himself up. He closes himself himself in the bathroom — he’s not a total idiot — but he doesn’t bother with the shower, closing the toilet lid and sitting down on top of it, shucking his shirt and leaving it on the floor.

In the mirror, his pecs look rounded, full. They look like tits. They’re soft to the touch, nothing like normal muscle, and for a moment he just trails his fingers over them, touching his skin. They’re not huge — he has no idea how bra sizes work, but he’d call them a handful or slightly less. His nipples are dusky pink, and so sensitive that he shivers when his fingertips catch on them. He cups one pec, lifting, gently squeezing. It hurts and it feels good. It should be weird how into this he is, how just touching himself is enough to make him hard, but he’s past the point where it matters. If he has to deal with this, the weird shame of it, at least he likes it.

He licks his fingers, getting them wet, and then reaches down to pinch his left nipple, tugging. It takes some encouragement, but when the milk finally starts to leak out he moans. He’s left it too long, and the released pressure is enough to make him sigh, relieved. He kneads at his tit, massaging the sore muscles underneath while coaxing the milk to dribble down his chest and onto his stomach. God, it’s good. When he glances at the mirror his cheeks are flushed red, his lower lip pulled between his teeth. It makes an embarrassed shiver run through him, and he quickly looks away.

He leans his head back against the wall, tugging his nipple, his free hand coming up to cup his dick through his pants, already leaking at the tip. This is more milk that he’s produced so far, and it runs down his belly, soaking into the waistband of his sweats. Each twist of his fingers on his chest sends a ripple of pleasure through him, almost too much. It’s going to be obvious in the locker room that he was touching himself, but he doesn’t have a choice. He has to get it out. Each little trickle feels better than the last.

He pinches lightly at the head of his dick, precome spurting out and soaking into cotton, leaving a little wet spot. He looks gross, sticky and damp, but he can’t help panting when he moves his hand to his other tit, rubbing over the nipple with his thumb, pressing, pressing, teasing. His breath is so loud, and when he sneaks another look at the mirror his eyes are half-lidded, his whole body slumped down, hips fucking into the curve of his palm, hand relentlessly squeezing milk down the front of his torso. It’s hot, kind of, how good it feels, but humiliating, too. That he can’t stop looking at himself, how debauched he is. That he can’t imagine anything could feel better than a mouth sucking at him, sucking the milk out of him.

That’s when Jimmy pushes the bathroom door open. “Hey —” he starts, and then stutters to a stop.

Brady catches one second of his wide-eyed shock, and then he swoops down and grabs his shirt off of the floor, clutching it against his chest. He can feel another dribble of milk soaking into the fabric.

“Fuck,” he says, vehement. His dick is still pressing, lewd, against the front of his sweats, but that’s nothing on the eyefull Jimmy probably got.

“Sorry, I came back early and the shower wasn’t running, so I thought — uh, I guess I thought you were brushing your teeth? Or out?” It sounds like a question. Like he’s not sure what he thought. Brady wonders what Jimmy was hoping he’d catch Brady at.

“Look you can just — if you let me clean up I can try to explain.”

Jimmy ignores the implied dismissal, shaking his head. His eyes are still so wide. “Are you —” He doesn’t finish the sentence, just takes another step into the bathroom, close enough that his shin is almost pressed to Brady’s knee. He reaches out, wrapping long fingers in the fabric of Brady’s shirt and tugging. Brady puts up some resistance, but Jimmy says, “C’mon, let me see.”

Brady looks at Jimmy, his best friend if he has one, the one who has been worrying about him for weeks, and he lets go.

“Fuck,” Jimmy says. At first he just stands there, looking, and then he reaches out to touch, his fingers tentative on the sensitive skin of Brady’s chest. He’s still leaking, and a drop of milk beads on his nipple at the lightest pressure from Jimmy’s fingertips. Jimmy’s eyes follow it as it trickles down the curve of Brady’s tit. “This is what you’ve been hiding?”

Brady nods, struck dumb, and bites back a whine when Jimmy presses harder. Jimmy’s thumb swipes over the surface of Brady’s nipple, and Brady sucks in a sharp breath through his nose.

“Hurts?” Jimmy asks. He’s not even looking at Brady’s face, just staring at his fingers on Brady’s skin.

“No, uh,” Brady says. His cheeks are burning. He can’t believe this is happening. “It feels — it’s good. It feels good.”

“Oh,” Jimmy says, drawing the sound out. “Can I, um. Can I keep touching?”

“Yeah,” Brady says, faint. He ducks his head. “But I might — fuck — come.”

“Jesus,” Jimmy says. “That’s. Yeah, okay. That’s so fucking hot.” His fingers twist, not sharp, but enough to cause another trickle of milk. It gets on Jimmy’s fingers, and he lifts them up to his mouth, tasting. “Fuck, it’s sweet.”

Brady moans, too loud, and he wants more. He’ll take anything. “Please,” he says.

“I can’t believe you kept this a secret,” Jimmy says, fingers back on Brady’s skin, massaging. He’s taking his time, figuring out the best way to make Brady squirm, to make the milk drip out fast. “God, just thinking about you sitting in the bathroom, doing this yourself. I would’ve helped.”

“It’s fucking weird,” Brady says, and Jimmy looks up from where he’s been fascinated with his hands on Brady, and whatever he sees on Brady’s face makes him smile.

“It’s kind of weird,” Jimmy says, with that crooked grin. “But also it’s stupidly hot.”

That’s enough to make Brady flush harder, embarrassment and pleasure warring. Here he is, splayed out in the bathroom for Jimmy to touch, and he’s enjoying it. He wants more. Jimmy’s fingers twist again, and Brady’s back arches without conscious thought, pushing into Jimmy’s hand. He rubs his dick through his sweats, so close to coming.

“How much do you think there is left?” Jimmy asks. “You’ve been doing this awhile, huh?”

Brady tries to muster up the words to answer, but then he feels Jimmy’s tongue — his _tongue_ — at the center of his chest, licking over the sticky trails of milk. Jimmy’s fingers knock Brady’s out of the way, and his grip on Brady’s dick is stronger, the strokes faster, just this side of painful and so good. Jimmy’s mouth is soft as he licks and kisses up Brady’s tit, over the areola. When he presses his mouth to Brady’s nipple, Brady short-circuits, whining, arching, and comes, soaking the inside of his boxers. Jimmy gives Brady a wet suck, and Brady feels the milk spurt out into Jimmy’s mouth, a weak pulse. He’s almost out. Brady stays boneless, letting Jimmy finish him off, his mouth warm and slick.

Eventually Jimmy pushes himself up — Brady isn’t even sure when he went to his knees — and yanks his pants out of the way.

“Can I come on you?” Jimmy asks, breathless, and at this point Brady doesn’t care, isn’t sure he’d care anyway. He gives Jimmy a tired thumbs up, which makes Jimmy laugh, fisting his dick, hips working. He’s worked up, and it doesn’t take him long to come, splattering across Brady’s tits.

“Wow, classy,” Brady says. His voice is a rusty croak, like he wore himself out moaning.

“Sorry, couldn’t help it,” Jimmy says. He leans down and rubs his fingers through the semen on Brady’s skin. Brady’s chest is still slightly swollen, his nipples red, but he’s not as sore. His tits are definitely smaller. Jimmy cups one, just rubbing, and then adds, “Want a shower?”

“Fuck, yeah,” Brady says. He wonders if he has to ask Jimmy to join him, but it turns out that he doesn’t. Jimmy feels him up a little more under the water, but Brady doesn’t tell him to stop. He likes it.

 

Later, once they’re both dried and clothed again, Jimmy sits next to Brady on the bed. Brady rolls onto his back, looking up at the ceiling, wondering how he’s going to explain something that he can only put down to stress.

“How often do you have to — you know?” Jimmy asks. It’s not what Brady was expecting.

“Oh, uh. Once or twice a week? I get really sore otherwise. And like — swollen.”

“Fuck,” Jimmy says, and when Brady turns his head enough to look, he’s smiling. “If I could get it up again, wow, thinking about that would do it.”

“I still think it’s weird,” Brady says. Jimmy reaches out and pinches Brady’s nipple through his shirt, making Brady hiss. It hurts, and it makes Brady dick twitch valiantly.

“Even if it is, who cares?” Jimmy shrugs, and Brady has to roll his eyes.

“They’re not _your_ tits,” he says.

Jimmy is quiet for a long moment, looking down at Brady. “Next time — can I help? From the beginning? Like, will you tell me next time, so I can be there.”

“Really?” Brady asks, dry. 

Jimmy looks faintly sheepish. “I’m just really into it. I want to — god, can you imagine? I could suck on them and feel you just — squirm, helpless. You make such good noises.”

“Jesus Christ, Jim,” Brady says. “Stop.”

“Will you, though? Let me?”

Brady huffs, trying to cover for how much he likes the idea of it. Jimmy on top of him, holding him down. Jimmy’s mouth on his nipples. Jimmy’s hands on him, or — Jimmy’s dick inside him.

“Brady, c’mon,” Jimmy says, wheedling. “I’m just being a good friend.”

“Whatever,” Brady says. “Yeah, yes, fine. I’ll tell you. Okay?”

“Awesome,” Jimmy says. He squeezes Brady again through his shirt, and then goes and lies down on his bed. Brady wonders what he’s getting himself into.

 

It’s not hard, after that, just to tell Jimmy, or text him that he _needs help with something_ , or give him a look over dinner. Jimmy is eager every time. He cups Brady’s tits and sucks on his nipples, he jerks Brady off while licking the milk off of his skin. It’s more than Brady could ever have imagined. Brady hasn’t worked up the nerve to ask Jimmy for anything more, but he keeps thinking about it. Jimmy has a dirty mouth when they hook up, and sometimes he says things. Things that make Brady think. That make him _want_.

Jimmy has Brady on his back on Brady’s bed, shirt pushed up to his chin, mouth a perfect suction. Jimmy’s dick is rubbing against Brady’s thigh whenever he moves. 

Jimmy pulls off long enough to say, “I can’t believe you didn’t have anyone to help you out in college. No one? Not even Mikey Reilly?”

“Fuck off,” Brady says, and then Jimmy’s mouth is back on his nipple, fingers pushing down the front of Brady’s pants. Brady gasps, rutting up, but Jimmy keeps his touch light and soft, like he wants to draw it out. He seems to like keeping Brady on edge. “Mikey’s not into dudes, and I doubt my having tits is enough to get over that.”

Jimmy looks up thought his eyelashes, mouth wet and sloppy. He looks so good, flushed and pink, mouth crooked up in a smile. “His loss,” he says, pressing his mouth to Brady’s sternum, right between his tits. “I’d do this every day if you let me.”

Brady shivers and closes his eyes.

 

When Brady wanders out of his room, still mostly asleep from his nap, Jimmy is on the couch already. He’s wearing his flannel pajama pants. They’ll have to get ready for the game soon — and probably wake Kevin up — but there’s enough time left that Brady flops onto the couch next to Jimmy. They’ve fallen into a holding pattern, the last couple of weeks, but Brady can’t say he doesn’t like it.

Jimmy laughs. “You okay there, bud?”

Brady yawns and slouches down, says, “Kinda sore. I think you used too much teeth last time.”

“Aw, babe,” Jimmy says, clearly amused. “Was I too hard on you?”

Brady rolls his eyes, and then jumps when Jimmy’s bare hand crawls up underneath the fabric of his t-shirt, first over his side, and then his stomach, clearly traveling upward.

“Jimmy,” Brady says, a warning, but Jimmy doesn’t pull away, and Brady doesn’t physically try to stop him. He lets Jimmy’s fingers brush up over his ribs and then cup his tit, the fabric bunching awkwardly over his wrist. His touch is soft, but Brady can’t hold in the hiss when Jimmy’s thumb ghosts over his nipple. He really is sore. His nipples are almost purple, too, like they’re bruised.

“Sorry,” Jimmy says, voice contrite. He tugs Brady’s shirt up enough that he can lean in and kiss Brady’s nipples, first the one underneath his thumb, and then the other. Brady shivers, and doesn’t know what to think about it. Jimmy loves his tits, that’s obvious. Jimmy loves to touch him and get him messy and jerk him off. Jimmy likes him too, of course, they’re friends, but Brady wonders what it means to have Jimmy’s mouth so soft on him, an apology. Even the warmth of Jimmy’s mouth hurts when he kisses Brady a second time, but Brady wouldn’t mind if Jimmy kept touching him, both of them sleepy, settled on the couch in the living room.

They hear Kevin’s door open, then, and Jimmy pulls away, tugging Brady’s shirt back into place.

 

They lose in overtime to the Wings, their fifth loss in a row, but even Brady’s exhaustion and frustration can’t keep him from pulling Jimmy aside once they get home. He shouldn’t be embarrassed but he is anyway. He’s lucky that he doesn’t have to do anything but grab Jimmy’s wrist and look at him, mouth twisting. Jimmy just knows by now.

“Already?” Jimmy asks, voice surprised.

Brady feels himself flush. “Sorry?” He can’t exactly control when he starts to feel full, like the milk could leak at any moment. He can’t imagine anything would be more embarrassing than that, looking down at his shirt and seeing two wet spots. He’s increasingly worried it could happen.

Jimmy shakes his head, smiling. “Uh, I don’t _mind_ , obviously, this is just faster than usual, isn’t it? And then two days before that, right?”

Brady has noticed, too, but wasn’t sure how to bring it up. He used to be able to go four or five days, but now he’s lucky if he makes it three. He wonders if Jimmy’s mouth has anything to do with that — Jimmy’s hands coaxing more out of him. Maybe the way Jimmy wants it is making Brady’s body react. Maybe it’s just Brady’s body, weird as usual. He should mind more than he does, he should mind a lot, but he has Jimmy to help him so it’s hard to work up any real worry.

“Yeah,” Brady says, soft. “There’s definitely more of it.”

“Good,” Jimmy says, and he sounds genuinely pleased as he tugs Brady toward his bedroom. “I was starting to get thirsty anyway.”

 

Their Canadian road trip — Vancouver, Calgary, Edmonton — is at the end of February leading into March. They’ve made it past the trade deadline, and he and Jimmy and Kevin are all still with the team. For now at least. They’re still losing more than they’re winning, but the front office has admitted they’re rebuilding. He isn’t sure why his body is still reacting the way it is — he even warned Jimmy that it could stop at any time — but he doesn’t have any control over it, and at this point, he doesn’t even care. That’s all Jimmy’s fault. For as long as it lasts, this is just the way he is.

They win in Vancouver, and there’s a travel day before their back-to-back with the Flames and Oilers, so most of the team goes out. Brady gets tipsy but not wasted, watching Kevin try to dance, then listening to Kevin talk about how great it’ll be to see Johnny. When Jimmy, also clearly tipsy, makes noises about heading back to the hotel, Brady lets himself be lead.

Jimmy barely waits until they’re inside the hotel room before he pushes Brady’s jacket off of his shoulders and onto the floor. He makes short work of Brady’s sweatshirt and t-shirt. Brady toes off his shoes and socks, just a little wobbly.

“Hello there,” Jimmy says, probably more to Brady’s tits than Brady himself. He cups one and looks at Brady’s face with that crooked smile. “I was thinking about this the whole time we were out drinking.”

“Fuck, really?” Brady asks. Jimmy’s thumb is brushing back and forth over his nipple, making Brady shiver.

“Yeah,” Jimmy says, stepping closer in. “Almost impatient enough to do this in the bar bathroom and just not wait. Would you do that if I asked you to?”

“You have a problem, you know that?” Brady says. He doesn’t answer the question, because he doesn’t want Jimmy to know that he might, and then he’s too busy moaning as Jimmy leans down and scrapes his teeth gently over the soft skin just on the underside of his tit. He licks up over the nipple, and then straightens up so he can push Brady down into the bed. His hands fumble with the button on Brady’s jeans, which is only weird because they haven’t gotten entirely naked together yet.

“Wanna?” Jimmy asks, looking up. His cheeks are pink, but that could be anything. Brady nods, lets Jimmy peel off his pants, his boxers, and then he’s naked. Jimmy isn’t.

Jimmy looks down at him, and Brady feels that curling in his stomach again — embarrassment, or maybe shame. It doesn’t make him want what Jimmy will give him any less.

“You gonna get naked too?” he asks.

“Want me to?” Jimmy asks. He sits on the edge of the bed by Brady’s hip and works determinedly at his shoelaces. Eventually he just yanks his shoes off, and Brady laughs at him. That puts him more at ease.

“Yeah,” he says, and then, because he’s been thinking about it, “You could fuck me, if you want. While we — you know.”

His face is hot, but he’s glad that he doesn’t look away from Jimmy, because Jimmy looks like he swallowed his tongue.

“Really?” Jimmy asks.

“If you want,” Brady says. “Um.”

“I’ve been trying not to think about it,” Jimmy says. He’s working on the buttons of his shirt, but he’s clearly lacking in focus. “You know — sucking on your tits while I fuck you.”

“God,” Brady says. Something about how vulgar that sounds riles him up. “Yeah.”

“You’re into that, huh?” Jimmy is smiling at him, shyer than he’s been in awhile.

“Yeah, I’m into it,” Brady says.

“Okay, cool,” Jimmy says. “Me too.” He backs up off the bed, and Brady watches him fish around in his bag until he finds a tube of lube. Prepared, like he was planning on this, or hoping Brady would ask. He tosses it next to Brady, and then finishes shucking off his clothes, all of him spindly and pale. Not anything Brady hasn’t seen before.

He’s hard already, like maybe he has been since the bar, like he’s been working himself up thinking about getting Brady naked. He knee-walks his way back onto the bed, fingers light on Brady’s stomach, brushing over his dick, up across his chest. He pinches one of Brady’s nipples, twisting lightly, and a drop of milk beads up there.

“Yeah, there you are,” Jimmy says, under his breath. He glances up. “Have you done this before?”

“Gotten fucked?” Brady asks. “Uh, yeah.”

“Just checking,” Jimmy says, mouth wry. He leans in to put his mouth on Brady’s chest, kissing over the skin there, so Brady is startled when cool fingers press his legs further apart. He spreads, and Jimmy settles between his thighs, hands stroking. Jimmy’s mouth trails over his collarbone, and Brady’s swollen and sore, though it’s only been a few days since Jimmy last touched him. He still almost asks Jimmy to kiss him.

Brady hears the squirting sound of lube, and then Jimmy’s wet fingers press between his cheeks, rubbing over his hole. It’s been awhile, admittedly, but Brady still knows how to relax when Jimmy pushes slowly inside, first with one finger, and then with two.

“Too many things to concentrate on,” Jimmy says, and pushes his face against Brady’s chest, the softness of his tits. One of them is already leaking slightly, a few drops tracking over his skin and down the side of his ribs. Jimmy’s fingers are long and thin, pressing so far inside him, and when Jimmy crooks them just right, they brush over his prostate, making him gasp and arch. Jimmy works him open steadily, pulling out to pour more lube onto his fingers and then pushing in with three. Brady makes an embarrassingly high whine at the fullness of it, how delicious it is. He’s been imagining this forever.

He’s boneless, hole stretched and slick, when Jimmy finally pulls his fingers out. He draws back — maybe looking at Brady’s hole, or just down the length of his body, how Brady’s already leaking — and then pushes Brady’s thighs up and open, the head of his dick sliding between Brady’s cheeks, dragging over the skin.

“Ready?” Jimmy asks, and Brady blinks, focuses in on Jimmy’s face. He’s chewing on his bottom lip, face pink with exertion.

“Yeah,” Brady says. “Go on.”

Jimmy shifts, dick dragging lewdly against Brady’s hole, and then he lines up, pushing slowly inside. Even just the head feels big, bigger than Jimmy’s fingers, for sure, but Brady wants it. He tries to spread his thighs further apart, heels digging into Jimmy’s back. Jimmy groans, and then his mouth is back on Brady’s chest, licking over his leaking nipple and then starting to suck.

“Oh, oh,” Brady says, helpless, pinned down with the feeling of it, Jimmy’s dick sliding further inside him, Jimmy’s mouth on his tit. He can feel the milk start to flow more steadily, and he watches Jimmy swallow as he rocks inside Brady.

He loses himself in how good it feels, once Jimmy is full seated, and then starts to thrust, falling into a rhythm with the pull of his mouth on Brady’s nipple. Jimmy’s mouth is wet, smeared, and Brady is so sensitive by now that each press of Jimmy’s tongue, each slide of Jimmy’s dick, makes him pant, or shudder, or whine. He can’t shut his mouth, the sounds spilling helplessly out of him.

Eventually, JImmy switches sides, teeth scraping Brady’s sensitive skin, and fingers coming up to play with the nipple he just left, smeared with spit and milk. It takes more work to get the second nipple flowing, and the suction hurts, but it still feels good in counterpoint to everything else Jimmy is doing. Finally, Brady feels the release of it, a relief, as his sore tit finally starts to flow. Jimmy hums, clearly pleased, and Brady shudders.

Brady’s dick is hard, leaking across his belly, but he’s afraid to touch it. He think he’d come from anything. 

“Fuck,” Jimmy says, pulling away. His mouth is so slick. He moves his fingers to tug at Brady’s nipple, letting the milk slide over his skin and get him even messier. “I can’t believe you’re letting me do this to you, it’s so hot. Look how much milk there is now.” His hands squeeze at Brady’s chest, little dribbles running over the small curve of his tits, down between. Jimmy’s thrusts are getting rougher, hard enough that Brady’s back is scraping against the comforter, his thighs aching from staying spread and bent. The angle is still good, so it doesn’t matter — Brady would take more pain for this kind of pleasure.

“Put your mouth — back on me, c’mon,” Brady says, panting, and Jimmy grins, quick, before doing as he’s told.

Brady feels tight all over, wound, ready. He’s been on edge forever, it seems like. Jimmy sucks once, hard, and Brady moans. He reaches down between them, wraps a hand around his dick, and comes almost immediately, semen splattering his stomach and thighs in pulses, Jimmy’s stomach.

Jimmy’s teeth scrape Brady’s nipple a little too hard, maybe because of the way he tightened around Jimmy when he came, but it makes Brady writhe, overloaded. A few tears squeeze out of the corner of his eyes, but he doesn’t care. He’s panting, too sensitive, but he still doesn’t want the slide of Jimmy’s dick inside him to ever stop.

“Brady,” Jimmy says, fingers taking up the job of wringing every last drop of milk out. Cupping, kneading. Brady’s skin feels nearly raw. Painful, but good. Everything is hovering between pleasure and pain. “Brady, look at me.”

It takes so much effort to lift his head, open his eyes. He has to blink away the blurriness, and a few more tears slide down his face. Jimmy is rocking into him, rhythm going erratic. His face is smeared wet, his mouth is red, and he’s staring at Brady with such intensity that Brady can’t look away.

“Just like that,” Jimmy says, and then he slams in. Brady can feel his dick twitch, hips slapping against Brady’s ass as he starts to come. His hips keep moving, working the come in, and Brady just lets him, watching Jimmy watch him.

Finally, Jimmy leans down and kisses both of Brady’s nipples, one after the other, soft and gentle. He’s empty now, but who knows how long that will last. Brady is already impatient for Jimmy to fuck him again.

“You let me come in you,” Jimmy says, awed. He rolls off, sliding out, and Brady holds in a sound. “Fuck, you’re a mess.”

“Mmhm,” Brady says. He’s tired. He spreads his legs when Jimmy urges him to, and only shivers a little when Jimmy’s fingers press back inside him where he’s wet. “Good?”

“Good? Are you kidding me?” Jimmy shakes his head. “This is the sexiest thing that has ever happened to me.”

“Which part?” Brady asks, working hard not to slur his words. He could easily just fall asleep like this, sticky with his own come and Jimmy’s and the milk smeared across his chest. The tears drying on his cheeks.

“How about all of it,” Jimmy says. “Don’t fall asleep yet, let me clean you up.”

This first seems to involve Jimmy licking across Brady’s collarbones and tits and ribs, getting as much of the milk as he can, and then he goes to the bathroom for a washcloth.

Brady lets him, yawns, and says, “At least if I’m weird, you are too.”

Jimmy raises his eyebrows, surprised, and then smiles that crooked smile. “Obviously. I thought you knew that by now. You want me to go back to my own bed?”

Brady thinks about that for half a second, and then shakes his head. “Stay.”

“Okay,” Jimmy says, voice soft. “Got it.”

He tosses the washcloth in the general direction of the bathroom, and then leans over Brady to turn the bedside lamp off. He tugs the covers over both of them, and curls up against Brady’s back, both of them still naked. His mouth is soft on the back of Brady’s neck, and his hand slides up Brady’s side, his ribs, feeling him up. Brady’s not surprised when Jimmy’s thumb brushes over his nipple, cupping him, a simple caress. It also doesn’t keep him from falling asleep.

In the morning, maybe he’ll ask Jimmy to kiss him. He’s pretty sure Jimmy will.


End file.
